


471. You don't know what's more scary (your door open, or closed)

by SevlinRipley



Series: So carry me home (to the door beneath the sand) [1]
Category: It - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chronic Pain, Fake Medical Condition, Kindergarten, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pseudo-Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 16:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13814622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevlinRipley/pseuds/SevlinRipley
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak, didn’t know what it felt likenotto have a dull ache humming throughout his entire body - until Mrs. Newby, his kindergarten teacher, made him shake hands with a boy named Richie Tozier.The trick of it was: neither did Richie.





	471. You don't know what's more scary (your door open, or closed)

Eddie Kaspbrak, didn’t know what it felt like _not_ to have a dull ache humming throughout his entire body - until Mrs. Newby, his kindergarten teacher, made him shake hands with a boy named Richie Tozier.

Richie had taken Eddie’s red crayon and shoved it up his nose while laughing. And not only had he gotten his germs all over Eddie’s favorite crayon, but he hadn’t even asked to borrow it in the first place.

A petite boy with too much energy and no way to _properly_ spend it, Eddie had shoved him. Pushing Richie off the plastic, blue, tipping chair, onto the grimy linoleum. Richie had huffed the crayon right out of his nose, as he landed with a small _thump_ , on the side of his thigh and his palm, and glared at Eddie from behind his glasses. Frames too big for his face, nearly sliding out from behind his ears upon impact.

Eddie didn’t even have time to temper the flare-up of indignation puffing up his little chest. Nor did Richie have time to process the action enough to begin laughing out of surprise. Or wipe the crayon off on his shirt, and hand it back to his classmate. Or tell Eddie to take it easy; it’s just the first day of school, do you wanna get expelled. Whatever that even meant. He’d just heard his sister say it once, in regard to placing chewing gum on the underside of her school desk, as she laughed with her friends over Little HUG juice and lemon cookies.

Mrs. Newby had rushed right over, lifting Richie up onto his feet by his armpits. “What’s going on here? Eddie?”

“He stole my crayon,” Eddie said, eyes now widening, scooching back in his chair. Fear pouring in at the threat of punishment. He hadn’t thought beforehand - too rash, and anger explosive - to make sure she wasn’t watching from her desk, as she flipped through the notebook all her lesson plans resided in. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t tell _me_ sorry, young man,” she had said, grave. “Richie, you apologize for taking his crayon without asking. We share, here, but we don’t steal.”

“Sorry,” Richie said, but he was smiling - smiling with his eyebrows drawn, and his lower teeth showing, and Eddie knew he didn’t mean it.

Her voice was somehow gentle and commanding at the same time, making Eddie slump forward in his chair - relieved but ashamed, when she said, “Eddie, we do _not_ hurt each other, no matter what. Now, tell Richie you're sorry for shoving him.”

Eddie gaped just for a moment, not wanting to do as asked, still certain he was in the right, but wanting to please her nonetheless. Move forward, get back to his work. So he sighed out a low, “Sorry…” And folded his hands between his legs, shoulders arched toward the little boy who'd not only stolen his crayon, but made him embarrass himself in front of their teacher, too.

“Now stand up and shake each other's hands. That’s a promise to be nicer to one another from now on. Understood?”

Tongue growing thicker in his mouth, Eddie frowned. Shake his hand. His undoubtedly _germy_ hand? He thought about remaining in his seat, about how his mommy would approve of his refusal to do so. How she would probably yell at Mrs. Newby if she found out Eddie had almost been made to get a cold, or whatever else sickness was awaiting him.

But he hated his mother’s yelling, her angry face, and her cold eyes - more than he hated the idea of getting sick. So he rose from the chair, hand trembling just slightly, and stuck it out between them.

Richie did the same -

And then something happened.

Their skin made contact, palm to palm, Richie’s fingers wrapped lazily around Eddie’s wrist.

Almost as if a skylight had opened up above them, shedding the most glorious sunshine overhead, a warmth seemed to wrap them up. A towel straight from the dryer after stepping out of the bath. Chicken noodle soup fresh off the stove when throats got sore and tummies upset, chills to the core.

So strange. So out of nowhere. Their eyes both blew wide open, but Eddie didn’t even notice Richie’s because this feeling… This feeling washed over him, foreign and scary. Yet safe and nice. The feeling of his whole-body ache, etched away in a single moment’s touch.

As they both jerked their hands back to their sides, shocked, Eddie returned to feeling as he always had. Only now. Now he knew what he’d been feeling. All his life.

Pain. An entire circus of pain circling up and down his nervous system. Trailing his body on a permanent tour.

He clutched at his stomach, eyes falling closed, as the ache radiated through his body and made his stomach churn. As if it had all-new confidence in what its mission was. Suddenly it knew that its goal was to turn Eddie green in the face, make him shaky, bead sweat at his brow, as it grew helplessly tight. Making him uncomfortable, and weak. Destabilized.

“Oh no, _oh_ boys…” Mrs. Newby was saying. It sounded distant to Eddie’s ears, and he only vaguely caught the duality of it. That it was plural. As she told Cynthia - with her blond ringlet pigtails, and her pink OshKosh overalls, today’s class leader - that she would be right back, she pulled open the classroom partition to have Mr. Neider next door watch the class while she was out. She guided both boys by the shoulders to the nurse’s office.

 

“Well, I just don’t know what happened, but something hit them at the same time. They both bent over in pain. You think it’s the stomach flu?” Eddie’s eyes pricked at that. Wet and sad, and boy was he gonna get it for touching Richie’s hand and getting himself sick when he knew better.

“I’ll take their temperatures, call their parents.”

“No!” Eddie cried, “Please don’t. I’ll be good!”

“Eddie,” Mrs. Newby had said softly, crouching down before him, hands on his knobbly knees, where he was sitting opposite Richie on a cold cot. “You’re not being bad; you’re not in trouble. You’re sick…”

“Please, please,” Eddie begged, sobbing quietly as his pain ebbed slightly. Or rather, as he grew accustom to it, once more.

He looked over at Richie, silently asking for help with his eyes. ‘Please. Tell them we’re not sick!’ Richie had a thermometer in his mouth, pressed under his tongue, and he couldn’t say anything. Looked dazed, confused…

Mrs. Newby patted his knees and stood up. “We’ll call if you’re ill, but if you start feeling better in - say half an hour, forty minutes?” she asked, stepping out of the way as a thermometer was pressed into Eddie’s mouth as well. The nurse nodded.

“They can both lie down for a while, and I’ll see if a baby aspirin or cold compress can’t do any good. You have a headache?” she asked, turning her eyes on Eddie. Who hesitated to nod his head.

Soft beeping trilled from the other cot, and Richie took the stick from his mouth as he said, “I do,” quiet. So different-sounding from before. Or maybe it was just how he was holding himself. Like he might fall apart if he let go of his limbs, didn't properly apply pressure to his center. Like a rag doll with its threads come loose.

“Eddie?” she asked, for confirmation. His mouth turned up just a hair at one side, and he gave in, nodding his head. “Stomach ache too?” she asked, checking the reading of the thermometer. “No fever, that’s good.”

“So you won’t call my mommy?” Eddie asked, around his thermometer, as it beeped, and he allowed her to pull it from him, checking his numbers, too.

“We’ll see how you both feel after some crackers and medicine.”

The baby aspirin didn’t help much, although Eddie felt relieved. Perhaps more so at the idea that maybe he could pretend to feel well, again, and not scare his mother, than by any aspirin miracle. But maybe, just maybe, it was having a positive affect somewhere underneath.

As they lay quietly, across from each other, Eddie found himself looking at Richie, who shared his curiosity. At just what had happened.

Eddie swallowed, and then, when the nurse left the room, he begged quietly, “Please say you feel better.”

“But I don’t… really,” Richie argued, furrowing his brow. “Do you?”

It took a long moment for Eddie to decide what to say. He knew he was supposed to be honest. Tell the truth, Eddie, his mommy often said. When he was about to get in trouble. But he knew only the nurse and his teacher could call his mom, and Richie was the only one in the room, since the nurse had stepped out to get them lunch from the cafeteria, to ‘try on their stomachs.’ “No. But please. My mom’ll get real mad if she finds out.”

“Really?” Richie said, sounding bewildered, a little hurt on Eddie’s behalf. Maybe _his_ mom and dad didn’t get mad at him when he got hurt.

Eddie's dad... well, Eddie's dad wouldn't really care, but it wouldn't matter. So long as his mother found out. And she'd be the one to answer the phone, or check the messages on the tape recorder answering machine. “Really.”

Still frowning, deep-set lines around his mouth, Richie said slowly, “Okay. I’ll tell ‘er I feel better. Okay?”

He nodded, grateful, then furrowed his brow, turning to look up at the ceiling. Had he made it up? That… feeling. When they shook hands? “Sorry I pushed you,” he mumbled. Despite the small way in which his mouth worked around the words, he meant them this time.

“I shouldn’t’ve took your crayon,” Richie sighed.

Then, Eddie turned his head to look at the sound of stiff bedding being rustled. Richie was sliding off the mattress, and making his way across the clipped steel-blue carpet. He shoved out his hand, biting the side of his lip. Eddie’s lower eyelid twitched, as he looked at it. Then his tongue darted out between his lips, in thought.

Sitting up, Eddie let his legs fall over the edge of the bed. He took Richie’s hand, a fake real-truce, now that they actually meant what they said. Fake, because… they just needed to see. If their imaginations had been playing tricks.

 _Whoosh_. Again. Like warm winds of a summer monsoon blowing in. Eddie almost would've sworn it even ruffled his hair, if he wouldn't get in trouble for story-telling. If he was trying to sound like a book.

The nerves, fiery and emboldened, quieted. His stomach stopped seizing in rebellion of the pain. His face smoothed, and his posture loosened. And this time he was paying enough attention to notice Richie really _must_ have felt the same way, because his entire demeanor changed before Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie licked at his lips again. “Whoa,” Richie said, grasping just a little more tightly at Eddie’s hand. Eyes wide, Eddie looked up into his face. His freckly, pale face, now far less sallow. A bit of pink on the apple of his cheeks. Eyes a warmer shade behind his lenses. Even his hair looked less mousy and dull.

“You feel better. Right?” It was a cautious sort of question, but his voice was edging on excitement. Rivoted by the discovery, and dumbfounded by it at the very same time. He felt cursed, but blessed... Blessed that maybe he could relieve himself of the curse he hadn't known he'd been carrying with him. When it had truly began - all the way back in the womb? - or how it got there, Eddie didn't care. Not in the moment. Didn't think it much mattered, as long as there was hope to get rid of it. If they could. His mouth filled with saliva just slightly, at the thought. Of feeling _good_ and whole and real.

“Yeah,” Richie choked out, like the idea was much too big to fit in his five-year-old mouth.

“Me too,” Eddie said, blinking.

Then the nurse came back, and they dropped each other’s hands, and as Richie flung himself back onto his own cot, the pain returned with a vengeance even more furious than before. “You said,” he whispered, ferocious, at Richie, as he clenched back the waves of pain and nausea. Telling Richie he was still holding him to the lie he’d said he would tell for Eddie. Begging him to help him, despite the agony of it. So much to ask of a stranger. ...Of a stranger who, for some reason, made Eddie feel like a new person. And he vaguely wondered, if _that_ was what being a human felt like. Not that he'd know how to put it to words if asked, but there'd always been something so alien about him. He felt this deep-seated sense of _not-belonging_.

It was almost too much to bear, the thought that if Richie made _him_ feel better, and he made _Richie_ feel better - well in a way, wasn't that a kind of belonging. A purpose. A reason he was here on this world where things were always trying to harm him, where his mother treated him as if he were a glass of wine about to spill over white carpet.

If he went to the hospital for this, he’d never get out, he was sure of it. They'd pin him down like the alien he'd felt he was, and dissect him to bits, trying to figure out _why_ he belonged, in some capacity, to this _boy_ he didn't even know. Why he needed the bandage of Richie's touch, just the same. And only because his very own mother would demand it. Demand he be taken apart. All apart. And Richie wouldn't... Richie - he'd probably be fine. Because his parents didn't get mad when he got ill. He wasn't afraid of them, like Eddie was of his own.

The desperation in his eyes, in his voice, must’ve gone a long ways. Or perhaps Richie simply didn’t know how to put a greater distance between them, now that he knew what he _could_ feel like. What he’d been missing out on.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t tell the nurse how uncomfortable he truly was, and by the end of lunch they were sent back to Mrs. Newby’s classroom. Hovering near each other like two magnets, but carefully avoiding touch. So as not to make themselves even worse off, when inevitably, they’d have to separate again. Despite the deep and abiding ache and temptation - desire like Eddie had never felt before - to give way. Let themselves off the hook, and feel better again. _Good_ again.

Right, again.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a trope introduced to me circa 2009, when I was in a boy group fandom. I don't know if the trope ever got an official name, but I loved it dearly. I'm not sure who to credit for the general idea, but if anyone knows, please say so. ♥ Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Title taken from "[Tilt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y4RULHc_3F0)" by [Wild Sweet Orange](https://www.songlyrics.com/wild-sweet-orange/tilt-lyrics/), from which the series title is also taken.


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